To mingle with our own; Mrs. Hemans. He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough And when he read, they forward lean'd, Slowly there grew a tenderer awe, Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, As if in him who read they felt and saw Some presence of the bard. It was a sight for sin and wrong And slavish tyranny to see, A sight to make our faith more pure and strong In high humanity. Why what a wasp-stung and impatient fool Shaks. Henry IV. Part I. As is a tired horse, or railing wife; When he speaks, The air, a charter'd libertine, is still, Shaks. Henry IV. Part I. The fool hath planted in his memory Shaks. Merchant of Venice. Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate, I hold my peace, sir? No; My tongue will tell the anger of my heart; Shakspeare. Shaks. Richard III. It was the copy of our conferenc Shaks. Comedy of Errors But still his tongue ran on, the less Butler's Hudibras And made the stoutest yield to mercy, Butler's Hudibras. Nor did we fail to see within ourselves Wordsworth. By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash, By any indirection. Shaks. Julius Cæsar. Why tribute? why should we pay tribute? if And we talk'd-oh, how we talk'd! her voice so Cesar can hide the sun from us with a Blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, cadenc'd in the talking, Made another singing-of the soul! a music with- We will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, out bars While the leafy sounds of woodlands, humming round where we were walking, Brought interposition worthy-sweet, about the stars, No more tribute. Shaks. Cymbeline. A moderation keep; Kings ought to shear, not skin their sheep. Herrick. And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if The law takes measure of us all for clothes, she always thought them. Miss Barrett. Every one within the house Diets us all, and in the sight of all, What is 't to us, if taxes rise or fall, Churchill. With that adown, out of her crystal eyne, Spenser's Fairy Queen. Shaks. King John. Let me wipe off this honourable dew, That silently doth progress on thy cheeks. Shaks. King John. I am not prone to weeping, as our sex Commonly are; the want of which vain dew, Perchance shall dry your pities: but I have That honourable grief lodg'd here, which burns Worse than tears drown. Shaks. Winter's Tale. Friends, I owe more tears, To this dead man, than you shall see me pay. Thy heart is big! get thee apart and weep. Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears, Stained their aspects with sore childish drops. Shaks. Richard III I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me What I should say, Shaks. Henry VI. Part III. To weep, is to make less the depth of grief: Tears, then, for babes; blows, and revenge for me! Shaks. Henry VI. Part III. Shaks. Julius Cæsar. Shaks. Tempest. Yet on she moves, now stands and eyes thee fix'd, About t' have spoke, but now, with head declin'd, No, I'll not weep. Though I have full cause of Like a fair flow'r surcharg'd with dew, she weeps, weeping, And words suppress'd seem into tears dissolv'd, Wetting the borders of her silken veil. Milton's Sampson Agonistes. Compassion quell'd His best of man, and gave him up to tears Which should express her goodliest. You have Apace, till firmer thoughts restrain'd excess. My manly eyes did scorn an humbler tear; Dryden's Spanish Frar. And what these sorrows could not thence exhale, But these are tears of joy! to see you thus, has fill'd Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with My eyes with more delight than they can hold weeping. Shaks. Richard III. Congreve's Mourning Brias The weakness of our natures, will forgive, Her eye did seem to labour with a tear, That were the world on fire, they might have Which suddenly took birth, but overweigh'd With its own weight, swelling, dropp'd upon her bosom, Which, by reflection of her light, appear'd Shirley's Brothers. Hill's Alzire. The eye that will not weep another's sorrow, Should boast no gentler brightness than the glare, That reddens in the eye-ball of the wolf. A child will weep a bramble's smart, Scott's Marmion |